The world outside Clyde's windows had long since deepened to a velvety indigo, the lights of the city twinkling like a scattered handful of diamonds. A deep, focused quiet had settled over the apartment, broken only by the soft hum of our laptops and the occasional click of my mouse. We'd ordered pizza hours ago, the box now sitting abandoned on the coffee table, half a cold slice remaining as a testament to our distraction.
I was deep in the zone, that strange, hyper-focused state where numbers ceased to be mere digits and instead wove themselves into a story. The Meridian Fund's labyrinthine financial trails were spread across my screen, a complex web of deceit I was meticulously untangling. Clyde was a steady presence beside me on the sofa, his own work—something involving secure communications and tactical maps—glowing on his screen. His thigh was pressed firmly against mine, a point of contact that was both comforting and centering.
And then I saw it.
It was a single transaction, almost laughably small compared to the multi-million-dollar flows I'd been tracing. A transfer of $14,527.18 from one of the shell corporations—'Aether Holdings'—to a private bank in Liechtenstein. The amount itself wasn't the clue. It was the memo line. Where most were blank or contained generic codes, this one held a string of text: 'FINAL PAYMENT - SERVICING FEE - ACCT DELTA X-RAY 7-2-9.'
My breath hitched. My fingers froze over the keyboard.
"Clyde," I said, my voice sounding strange and thin in the quiet room.
He was instantly alert, setting his laptop aside and turning his full attention to me. "What is it? You okay?"
I pointed a trembling finger at the screen. "Look. The memo line."
He leaned in, his shoulder pressing against mine as he squinted at the characters. "Servicing fee? For what?"
"It's not the fee," I said, excitement beginning to bubble up, pushing past the fatigue. "It's the account name. 'Delta X-Ray 7-2-9'. That's not a standard financial designation. That's a callsign. Or a project name. Military. Has to be."
Clyde went very still. I could feel the shift in him, from relaxed partner to focused operator. "Delta X-Ray," he repeated slowly, his voice low and intent. "D-X-R. 7-2-9." He was silent for a moment, his mind racing behind those pale eyes. Then he snapped his fingers, a sharp, decisive sound. "DXR-729. It's not an account. It's a weapon. A prototype next-gen drone guidance system. The project was supposedly scrapped due to 'budget overruns'."
My mind was reeling, connecting the dots at lightning speed. "They didn't scrap it. They privatized it. They sold the tech through this shell company and were laundering the payment through this account. This… this is the proof. This directly links the fund to illegal arms technology transfer. This is the dissonant chord."
I turned to look at him, my eyes wide. His face was a mask of fierce, proud intensity.
"Troy," he said, his voice full of awe. "You brilliant, beautiful man. You found it."
The sheer, unadulterated admiration in his tone sent a thrill through me that was better than any professional commendation. He didn't just see a number cruncher; he saw a partner. An equal.
Before I could respond, he cupped the back of my head and pulled me into a searing kiss. It was nothing like the gentle, sleepy kisses from this morning. This was a kiss of triumph, of raw, unbridled pride and passion. It was hard and demanding and over far too soon.
He pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, both of us breathing heavily. "This is it. This is the key that blows the whole thing wide open."
The adrenaline was coursing through me now, burning away the hours of fatigue. "We have to secure this. Now. They'll be monitoring for any queries on this account."
"On it," he said, his voice all business again. He grabbed his secure phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. "Jin? Adams. I'm sending you a data packet. Highest priority encryption. I need a full, silent trace on this endpoint. No flags. I don't care if you have to wake the Director. This is the one." He listened for a second. "Acknowledged. Out."
He ended the call and looked at me, a wild, excited grin spreading across his face—a look I'd never seen on him before. It was boyish and triumphant and utterly devastating.
"They're on it," he said. "The wheels are in motion."
The reality of what we'd just done came crashing down. The danger, the magnitude of it. The people we were up against. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cool night air ran through me.
Clyde saw it. His grin softened. He reached out and took my hand, lacing our fingers together. His grip was firm, reassuring. "Hey. Look at me." I did. His eyes were steady, certain. "You just did the hard part. The impossible part. Let me and my team handle the rest. They can't touch you. I won't let them."
He believed it. Utterly and completely. And looking into his eyes, feeling the strength of his hand in mine, I found myself believing it, too.
The fear receded, replaced by a giddy, exhausted euphoria. A laugh bubbled out of me, slightly hysterical. "I found it," I whispered, almost to myself.
"Damn right you did," he said, his own laugh a low, rich sound. He pulled me into his side, wrapping his arm around me. We sat there for a long moment, staring at the screen that held the key to everything, surrounded by the quiet hum of the night.
"You know what this calls for?" he asked, his voice a rumble against my ear.
"A full tactical assault?" I guessed.
"Better," he said, pressing a kiss to my temple. "The other half of that cold pizza. And then, Mr. Nash, I am taking you to bed. Not to sleep," he added, his tone dropping into a promise that made my stomach flip. "To celebrate. Properly."
He stood up and headed for the kitchen, and I watched him go, this magnificent, terrifying, wonderful man who cooked me omelets and deciphered weapon codes and looked at me like I'd hung the moon.
I had started this journey alone, chasing ghosts in a machine. Now, I had a warrior by my side, and we were about to bring down a empire. And afterwards, apparently, there was cold pizza and a proper celebration.
I couldn't think of a better way to end the day.
The world had dissolved into a hazy, post-coital paradise. We were a tangled mess of limbs and contentment on Clyde's ridiculously large sofa, the soft, worn fabric cool against my skin. The only light came from the city glittering beyond the windows and the faint, standby glow of our laptops, which we'd abandoned hours ago. The empty pizza box sat on the floor like a trophy.
Clyde's arm was a heavy, wonderful weight across my chest, his fingers idly tracing patterns on my shoulder. My head was pillowed on his other arm, and I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart against my side. I'd never felt so… claimed. So utterly and completely at peace.
"I should probably," I murmured, my voice sleep-rough, "I don't know, save my work or something." The thought was a distant, fuzzy notion. The groundbreaking financial evidence that could topple a shadow empire felt about as important as a grocery list right now.
Clyde's chest rumbled with a low chuckle beneath me. "It's saved. I encrypted and uploaded the entire session to a secure server the second you found that routing number. Jin's team has been running with it all night."
I tilted my head back to look at him. His face was all shadow and sharp angles in the dim light, but his eyes were soft. "You did what?"
"Standard op procedure," he said, as if he'd just taken out the trash and not performed a digital extraction of the most important discovery of my career. "Asset secures the intel. Protection secures the asset's work. You were a little… busy being brilliant to notice."
The casual competence, the way he'd seamlessly backed me up without me even knowing, left me speechless. He'd been my silent partner in every sense of the word. I leaned up and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss of gratitude that he met with equal measure.
When we broke apart, he smiled against my lips. "Besides, if I'd interrupted you while you were in the zone, you might have tried to take me down with a well-aimed spreadsheet."
I snorted. "My spreadsheets are lethal. You have no idea."
"I believe it," he said, his hand sliding down to splay across my lower back, pulling me even closer. "Now, stop thinking about work. Your brain needs a break. My mission is to ensure it gets one."
His idea of a 'break' involved carrying me to the bathroom and drawing a bath so deep and hot it felt like stepping into a warm embrace. The scent of his sandalwood soap filled the steamy air. He didn't just leave me to it; he stepped in behind me, settling into the water and pulling me back against his chest.
This was different from the morning's bath. That had been about comfort, about washing away the grief and travel. This was pure, unadulterated luxury. He washed my hair, his strong fingers massaging my scalp with a tenderness that made me want to purr. He soaped my arms, my chest, his touch reverent and slow, as if memorizing the feel of me. There were no words. The silence was filled with the lapping of water, the sound of our breathing, and a profound sense of rightness.
Later, wrapped in towels and smelling like him, we ended up back in the kitchen. He made tea this time, a robust English Breakfast, and we stood side-by-side at the counter, sipping from mismatched mugs, our shoulders touching. It was three in the morning. The world was asleep. And we were in our own perfect, quiet bubble.
The bubble, of course, had to be punctured. My body, after hours of intense focus followed by… other intense activities, was rebelling. As I reached up to put my mug in the sink, a sharp cramp seized my lower back. I winced, stretching awkwardly to try and relieve it, a soft groan escaping me.
Instantly, Clyde was there. His hands settled on my hips, turning me gently to face him. "Hey. What's wrong?"
"Just stiff," I said, offering a weak smile. "Too many hours hunched over a laptop. I'm not built like you."
His expression softened with understanding. "C'mere." He guided me to stand in the middle of the kitchen, then moved behind me. His hands, warm and sure, found the knotted muscles along my spine. He began to knead them, his thumbs working out the tension with a practiced pressure that was both firm and incredibly gentle. I let my head fall forward with a moan of pure relief.
"God, that's good," I mumbled, my eyes fluttering closed.
His lips found the side of my neck, kissing the sensitive skin there. "You carry all your stress right here," he murmured against me, his voice a low vibration. "I can feel it."
His hands slowed their ministrations, one sliding around my waist to hold me steady while the other continued its magic on my back. His kisses traveled from my neck to my shoulder, soft and lingering. He nuzzled the collar of the t-shirt I'd pulled on, his breath warm on my skin.
"Clyde," I breathed, the word a sigh as his touch shifted from therapeutic to something else entirely. Something heated and possessive.
He turned me in his arms again. His eyes were dark in the low kitchen light, full of a warm intensity that made my knees feel weak. He didn't say a word. He simply framed my face with his hands and kissed me. It was a deep, slow, soul-searing kiss that tasted of tea and him and a future I was desperately starting to believe in.
He walked me backward out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom, never breaking the kiss. This time, when we came together, it was with a sweet, aching slowness that felt like a vow. There was no rush, no frantic energy. It was a rediscovery, a reaffirmation of everything we had just become to each other. It was filled with soft sighs, with whispered names, with his forehead pressed against mine as we moved together in a rhythm that felt ancient and brand new. It was less about passion and more about connection, a silent promise spoken with our bodies in the quiet dark.
Afterward, wrapped in each other and the cool sheets, I traced the lines of his face in the moonlight. "You know," I said, my voice soft, "for a man who specializes in chaos, you're incredibly good at creating peace."
He captured my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm before tucking it against his heart. "It's easy," he said, his voice drowsy and content. "The chaos is out there. You… you're my peace."
The simplicity and truth of it settled over me, warm and heavy as a blanket. I curled into his side, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and knew, with a certainty that shook me to my core, that I had finally, truly, come home.
The morning sun streamed through Clyde's bedroom window, painting a bright rectangle across the rumpled sheets. I woke slowly, luxuriously, to the feeling of a heavy arm draped across my waist and the solid warmth of Clyde's chest against my back. For a long, blissful moment, I just lay there, breathing him in. The scent of his skin, the sandalwood soap from our bath, and something uniquely male and Clyde had become the most comforting aroma in the world.
His breathing was still deep and even with sleep. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I extricated myself from his embrace. He made a soft, grumbling sound in his sleep, his hand searching for me before stilling. A fond smile touched my lips. The world's most dangerous man was adorable when he was sleepy.
I padded barefoot into the kitchen. The aftermath of our late-night pizza and tea was still evident. Right. Mission: Coffee. I found his industrial-sized coffee maker and set about figuring out how to work the beast. I was just triumphantly pressing the 'brew' button when a pair of strong arms slid around my waist from behind.
I yelped in surprise, then relaxed back against him as he nuzzled my neck. "You're sneaky," I accused, tilting my head to give him better access.
"It's a skill," he mumbled against my skin, his voice gravelly with sleep. "Smelled coffee. Best alarm clock ever." He kissed my shoulder before releasing me to grab two mugs from the cupboard. He fixed mine first—black, no sugar—and handed it to me before pouring his own.
We stood there at the counter, sipping our coffee in a comfortable silence, watching the city come to life outside his window. It was domestic. It was normal. It was perfect.
"We're out of food," he announced, peering into his nearly empty refrigerator with a critical eye. "And by 'food,' I mean anything that doesn't require tactical gear to prepare. We need to go to the store."
The idea of something as mundane as grocery shopping after the last 48 hours we'd had was so absurd I almost laughed. "Okay. Should I… call for a security detail? Or will you be escorting me to the produce aisle yourself?"
He shot me a look that was all smoky promise. "I'll be escorting you everywhere, Nash. Get used to it." He drained his coffee. "Get dressed. I'll drive."
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling out of his secure garage in a far more sensible—and less conspicuous—dark grey SUV than the red behemoth of the day before. Clyde drove with the same focused attention he did everything, but the set of his shoulders was more relaxed.
The grocery store was its usual mid-morning bustle. Fluorescent lights hummed, carts clattered, and a Muzak version of a pop song I vaguely recognized played overhead. It was a jarring contrast to the life-and-death stakes of yesterday.
Clyde grabbed a cart and took charge immediately, steering us toward the produce section with a clear plan in mind. I followed, content to let him lead. It was fascinating to watch him shop. He was just as efficient and discerning here as he was in any other aspect of his life. He picked up a avocado, weighed it in his hand with a critical frown, and put it back. "Too soft," he declared.
We turned down the cereal aisle, and that's when it hit me. The memory slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. The cold press of steel against my back. The gravelly threat in my ear. The sheer, paralyzing terror. And then… him. A mountain of a man appearing at the end of the aisle, his pale eyes seeing everything. The feel of being wrenched backward into the safety of his chest.
I stopped walking, my hand going white-knuckled on the cart handle.
Clyde noticed instantly. He followed my gaze to the spot where it had happened, near the organic lemons. His expression tightened. He stepped closer, his body subtly shifting to block my view, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. "Hey," he said, his voice low and calm. "You're safe. I'm right here."
I took a shaky breath, the present rushing back in. The sounds of the store, the feel of his hand on my back, solid and real. "I know," I said, my voice a little unsteady. "It just… caught me off guard." I looked up at him, a wry smile touching my lips. "This is where you saved my life with a fruit."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Best use for one, in my opinion." He didn't move away. He kept his hand on my back, a steadying pressure, as we continued down the aisle. His presence was a shield, and the lingering chill of the memory slowly faded.
We finished our shopping—Clyde adding a truly alarming amount of protein to the cart—and made our way to the checkout. The young woman at the register, whose name tag read 'Brittany,' did a classic double-take when she saw Clyde. Her eyes went wide, her cheeks flushing pink.
"Hi there," she said, her voice suddenly several octaves higher. She started scanning our items with a clumsiness that suggested most of her blood had rushed to her face. "Find everything okay today?"
"We did, thank you," Clyde said, his tone polite but neutral. He was completely oblivious to the effect he was having on her.
Brittany, however, was not giving up. "That's a lot of chicken," she giggled, holding up a package. "You must be, like, really into fitness." She batted her eyelashes.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Clyde just looked mildly confused. "It's efficient," he stated, as if that explained everything.
She bagged our groceries with a wistful sigh, her eyes lingering on Clyde as he effortlessly lifted two full bags in one hand. "You have a… great day," she called after him as we walked away.
"You too," Clyde said, still utterly clueless.
I couldn't hold it in anymore. A snort of laughter escaped me as we pushed the cart through the automatic doors.
He looked at me, bemused. "What?"
"She was flirting with you," I said, shaking my head. "Heavily."
He blinked. "Who was?"
"Brittany. The checkout girl. She was about to offer to personally cook all that chicken for you."
He processed this for a second, then shrugged, loading the bags into the SUV. "Huh. Didn't notice." He closed the trunk and looked at me, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Besides, I already have someone to cook my chicken for me."
I swatted his arm. "I am not your personal chef, Adams."
"Could've fooled me with that omelet," he shot back, opening my door for me.
Instead of heading straight home, he drove to a small, sun-drenched café with patio seating. "Lunch," he announced. "We're celebrating."
We found a table outside, and almost immediately, I noticed the looks. A table of women a few years older than us kept glancing over, whispering behind their menus. One of them, a brunette in a very chic sunhat, smiled directly at Clyde, a clear, unmistakable invitation in her eyes.
Clyde was studying the menu with the intensity of a man planning a military campaign. "The turkey club looks like it has sound structural integrity," he mused.
I kicked his shin under the table. "Don't look now, but your fan club at three o'clock is ready to enlist."
He didn't even glance over. He just reached across the table and took my hand, lacing our fingers together. He brought our joined hands to his lips and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to my knuckles, his eyes holding mine.
The whispering at the other table stopped abruptly.
"The only opinion I'm interested in is yours," he said, his voice low and meant only for me. "Now, are you getting the club or not? I need to know if we're sharing."
I looked at our joined hands, at this magnificent, clueless, wonderful man who was completely, utterly mine. The fear from the grocery store, the lingering anxiety, it all melted away under the warm weight of his certainty.
"We're sharing," I said, my heart so full I thought it might burst. "We're definitely sharing."
The sun was warm on our little patio table, the air smelling of freshly brewed coffee and fried potatoes. It was idyllic, a perfect, peaceful moment carved out of the chaos of our lives. And it was being thoroughly observed.
The table of women—three of them, impeccably dressed for a ladies' lunch—had not been subtle. Their glances had progressed to not-so-quiet whispers and, from the brunette in the commanding sunhat, a series of smiles aimed directly at Clyde that could have powered a small city. She'd just finished a particularly flirty little hair toss when her eyes met mine. She had the decency to look momentarily chastised before her gaze slid right back to the mountain of a man sitting across from me.
Clyde, for his part, was utterly, blissfully oblivious. He was dissecting the menu with the focused intensity he usually reserved for tactical maps. "The Reuben has a high risk of structural failure," he announced, frowning at the description. "The corned beef-to-sauerkraut ratio is a critical variable. One wrong move and the entire operation is compromised."
I took a sip of my iced tea to hide my smile. "It's a sandwich, not a hostage situation."
"You say that," he said, not looking up, "but a poorly constructed Reuben is its own kind of trauma."
That's when the sunhat brunette decided to make her move. As their waiter passed by our table, she stopped him, her voice carrying clearly on the pleasant breeze. "Excuse me? Could you ask that gentleman over there what he's having?" She pointed—actually pointed—at Clyde. "It looks so delicious." She fluttered her eyelashes for good measure.
The poor waiter, who looked about nineteen and deeply uncomfortable, shuffled over to our table. "Um, sir? The ladies at that table were wondering what you ordered? They said it looks… delicious." He blushed scarlet.
Clyde finally looked up from his menu, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He followed the waiter's gesture to the women, who simpered and waved. He looked back at the waiter, then at his menu, then at me.
"The grilled chicken club," he stated, his tone suggesting he was delivering a vital intelligence report. "But I'm questioning the structural integrity of the bacon placement. It's a gamble."
The waiter stared at him, blinked twice, and retreated back to the women's table to deliver what was undoubtedly the most bizarre culinary review of his career.
I lost it. A snort of laughter escaped me, followed by another, until I was laughing so hard I had to wipe tears from my eyes. "Structural integrity?" I wheezed. "You just compared her bacon to a load-bearing wall."
He shrugged, a faint smile touching his lips. "It's an important consideration."
Our food arrived—his structurally-sound club and my salad—and we began to eat. But the show wasn't over. A pair of businessmen at a nearby table, having witnessed the entire exchange, were now chuckling amongst themselves. One of them, a guy with a too-tan complexion and a loud tie, raised his glass in a mock toast toward Clyde.
"Hey, big guy," he called out, his voice jovial and intrusive. "Looks like you've got quite the fan club over there. You need a manager or something?"
Clyde chewed a bite of his sandwich, swallowed, and looked at the man. His expression was completely neutral. "I'm managed," he said flatly, and then his gaze flicked to me.
The man's smile faltered. He finally seemed to notice me, to notice the way Clyde was looking at me, and the easy camaraderie on his face evaporated, replaced by a faint flush of embarrassment. "Oh. Right. Sorry, pal," he mumbled, turning quickly back to his companion.
The laughter that had been bubbling inside me moments before curdled into something else. Something hot and prickly. It was one thing to find it hilarious when women flirted with my completely oblivious boyfriend. It was another thing entirely when other men did it, acknowledging his… appeal… in a way that felt somehow more pointed, more knowing.
A petty, ridiculous jealousy, sharp and acidic, bloomed in my chest. It was stupid. Clyde had just very publicly, if awkwardly, claimed me. But the feeling was there, unwelcome and green-eyed.
I stabbed a piece of lettuce with probably more force than necessary. Clyde's eyes, those pale, perceptive lasers, missed nothing.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low.
"Nothing," I said, my tone a little too bright. "It's just a very popular sandwich, I guess."
He was silent for a moment, watching me push my food around my plate. Then, he did something completely unexpected. He reached across the table, but not for my hand. His fingers gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"Troy," he said, his voice soft but serious. "Look at me." I did. His eyes were warm, filled with a understanding that made me feel both seen and slightly foolish. "The only person in this restaurant I'm interested in impressing is you. The only opinion on this sandwich that matters is yours. And for the record," he added, a slow, devastating smile spreading across his face, "if I were going to flirt with someone using cold cuts, it would be you. I'd tell you your pastrami is particularly compelling today."
The jealousy evaporated, burned away by the warmth of his words and the sheer absurdity of them. A laugh burst out of me, real and relieved this time. "My pastrami?"
"It's very compelling," he repeated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur. "And just so we're clear, the only club I'm interested in is the one where you're the only member."
My heart did a slow, happy somersault. He was ridiculous. And he was perfect.
"Good," I said, my voice a little husky. I speared a piece of grilled chicken from his plate. "Because this club is exclusive. And the membership fee is… steep."
He captured my hand, the one holding the fork, and guided it to his mouth, taking the bite of chicken. He never broke eye contact. "Worth it," he said simply.
The women, the businessmen, the entire restaurant faded away. There was only him. Only us. And the certain, joyful knowledge that I was the luckiest man alive, pastrami or not.
The world had shrunk back to the size of our sun-drenched table. The lingering annoyance and jealousy had melted away under the warmth of Clyde's absurd, perfect words. I was laughing, really laughing, for the first time all day, my fork still poised in the air after he'd stolen a bite of chicken from it. He was smiling back at me, a real, full smile that transformed his face and made my stomach do a happy little flip.
That's when I saw it.
Over his shoulder, a car—a black sedan, common and unremarkable—slowed as it passed the restaurant's patio. It wasn't the car itself that caught my eye; it was the license plate. And the way it was creeping along, far slower than the rest of the traffic.
My laughter died in my throat. My fork clattered against my plate.
Clyde saw the change in my expression instantly. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a terrifying, neutral blankness. He didn't turn his head. He didn't need to. His eyes locked on mine, reading the alarm there, and his entire body went preternaturally still. It was like watching a predator freeze before the strike.
The car rolled to a stop just past the patio. The passenger-side door swung open.
Two men got out. They weren't dressed like the businessmen or the lunching ladies. They wore dark, nondescript clothing and moved with a purpose that screamed trouble. And they were looking right at me.
Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity. I saw the hostess at the front stand take a step forward, a polite smile on her face. "Gentlemen, do you have a reserv—?"
They ignored her. Their focus was absolute. On me.
I was frozen, a deer in the headlights of my own terrifying history. The memory of the knife in the grocery store, cold and sharp, flashed behind my eyes.
Then, in a blur of motion so fast my brain could barely process it, Clyde was no longer sitting across from me.
He was a wall of muscle and fury between me and the approaching men. I hadn't even seen him push his chair back. One moment he was there, the next he was here, his body positioned squarely in their path.
"That's far enough," he said. His voice wasn't a shout. It was low, flat, and carried a tone of absolute, unquestionable authority that cut through the gentle clatter of silverware and murmured conversations. The entire patio fell silent.
The lead man, a bulky guy with a shaved head, smirked. He took another step. "We just want to talk to the accountant. No need for trouble."
Clyde didn't move an inch. "You're causing trouble. Turn around. Get back in your car. and drive away." Each sentence was a clean, precise command.
The second man, taller and leaner, tried to sidestep Clyde. It was a mistake.
Clyde's hand shot out, not in a punch, but in a lightning-fast motion that caught the man's wrist, twisted it, and used the man's own momentum to slam him face-first onto the surface of an empty table nearby. Plates and glasses shattered. The man grunted in pain and surprise, collapsing to the ground in a heap of broken ceramic.
The big guy lunged. Clyde didn't retreat. He met the charge head-on, ducking under a wild swing and driving his shoulder into the man's chest with a sickening thud. He followed through, wrapping his arms around the man's torso, lifting him completely off his feet, and body-slamming him onto the paved patio with brutal, efficient force. The man lay there, wheezing, the fight utterly knocked out of him.
The whole thing took maybe five seconds.
The silence on the patio was now absolute and stunned. A woman gasped. Someone dropped a glass. The hostess stood with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.
Clyde stood over the two downed men, his chest rising and falling steadily. He wasn't even breathing hard. He looked… calm. terrifyingly calm. He pulled out his phone, never taking his eyes off the men.
"Jin. Adams. Civvie location, La Belle Café on 5th. Two hostiles neutralized. Send a clean-up crew. And track a black sedan, Massachusetts plates, Echo-Charlie-Lima-8-9-2. It just left the scene. I want it found." He listened for a beat. "Acknowledged."
He ended the call and finally turned to look at me. The cold killer's mask dropped away, replaced by a look of intense concern. "Troy? You okay?"
I was still gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white. I managed a shaky nod. "Yeah. I… yeah."
He was at my side in two strides, his hands on my arms, his eyes scanning me for any sign of injury. "Did they touch you? Are you hurt?"
"No," I breathed. "You were… you were there."
The restaurant staff and patrons were still frozen, staring at us. The manager, a pale man in a suit, finally approached cautiously. "Sir? I… I've called the police."
Clyde didn't even look at him. His focus was entirely on me. "Tell them to stand down," he said, his voice still holding that ring of command. He pulled a slim, black wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open, revealing a badge and an ID card I couldn't see clearly. "Federal security matter. My team is en route to handle it."
The manager's eyes bulged. He stammered something unintelligible and backed away, already pulling out his phone.
Clyde's attention returned to me. His thumb stroked my arm, a gentle contrast to the violence of moments before. "I'm sorry," he murmured, for my ears only. "I'm so sorry they found us here."
The shock was beginning to recede, replaced by a cold, hard clarity. They had found us. In broad daylight. In a crowded restaurant. The audacity of it was staggering.
I looked from the two groaning men on the ground to the man standing protectively over me, who had moved faster than I thought humanly possible. A hysterical bubble of laughter fought its way up my throat.
"You know," I said, my voice still a little unsteady, "for a man who's so worried about the structural integrity of a bacon club, you have a really effective way of deconstructing people."
A surprised bark of laughter escaped him. He pulled me into a fierce, one-armed hug, his body still thrumming with residual adrenaline. "C'mon," he said, his voice rough with relief. "Let's get you out of here before the real paperwork starts."
He kept his arm around me, a solid, unshakable barrier between me and the world, as he guided me through the silent, staring crowd, past the broken table, and toward our car. The lunch was over. The game had changed. But as I leaned into his strength, I knew one thing for certain: I was still on the winning team.